The Incredibly Embarrassing Life of Lizzie
by Woody's Muse
Summary: Lizzie Bennet has a job she doesn't want, a colleague she hates and a mother who constantly sets her up with pervy, balding bankers. But, when she butts head with the rich, cocky and rather yummy Will Darcy, her less than perfect life turns upside down.
1. Chapter 1

This is a great day. The greatest. The day that will make all other days hang their heads in shame. Because today, I, Lizzie Bennet, will be getting a big, fat, juicy promotion!

I throw back my curtains with the enthusiasm of Julie Andrews in the Sound of Music belting out Doe a Deer and happily take in the blue sky and picturesque view. Well, OK, I wouldn't actually go that far. I share a tiny flat in Shoreditch with my sister Jane and the only view we have is of dull grey pavement. Not exactly rolling green hills or golden sandy beaches. But, this fact will not dim my new positivity and excitement. I am sick of complaining about work and money and men. So, I have decided that as of today I am taking a different attitude to life, throwing the old Lizzie away and introducing the new and improved 'every cloud has a silver lining' Lizzie, who apparently uses corny sayings to make a situation seem better. A half glass full kind of girl.

In fact, I might even make a list. A list of 'Lizzie Improvements'; a set of guidelines by which to live my new, fabulous life. Let's see...

I will stop complaining to Jane (and anyone who will listen to be honest) about how annoying Alexa is.

Alexa Albright (I know, her name's hilarious, it sounds like something from a Spiderman comic!) works with me at the Daily Telegraph writing features for the fashion and celebrity section and constantly brags about going to all these posh new club openings and knowing all these famous designers- one of them is apparently a huge deal. His work is in museums like the V and A and he's met the Queen and stuff. I googled him. She always looks so smug when she tells me all about her fabulous, chic life and I have to sit there pretending I know whatever it is she's talking about and do a sneaky google every so often so I can answer all of her stupid, tricky, well aimed questions. I mean, who seriously wants to talk about fashion all day anyway? Except maybe The Fashion Police on E! and that's only because they're paid to.

Alexa just loves making me look like an inferior little idiot. Like the other day, my editor Phil brought up the subject of Anne Hathaway in the staff meeting, and, I'm not going to lie, to try and look better than Alexa I started saying all sagely about how she must have been terribly unhappy stuck in a marriage with Shakespeare- he just left her with the kids in their house in Stratford upon Avon while he lived it up in London- when Alexa cut in looking like the cat who got the cream, saying that they were talking about Anne Hathaway the movie star, not some dead woman. Phil nearly had an embolism he laughed so hard and naturally I ended up looking like a complete durr brain who'd gotten all her facts wrong again and the natural order of the world-whereby Alexa is right and I am wrong- was once again restored.

And another thing; how is it fair that she is stunning **and** a bitch? If I was that gorgeous I would use my looks for good, like Natalie Portman. Plus Alexa's legs alone are about the same height as me. Puny, pathetic five foot three me. Every day she practically glides into the office with her Armani suits and Gucci jewellery, I just want to hack her stupid stick legs off. Let her feel how it is to be one of the little people- both literally and metaphorically speaking. But I swear, no one else gets it. They're all bloody hypnotised by her swishy golden hair, worship the very ground her spindly three inch heels walk on, hang on to her every perfectly enunciated word. And Phil's the worst, he thinks the sun shines out of her arse. Plus he knows her dad too, who's some loaded hot shot in the business world, so they always talk about him together. That's how Alexa got the job, actually. Though she'll never admit it. My friend Charlotte from HR told me all about it, but I won't get into that. I mean I am a professional after all.

Anyway, where was I? Oh yeah, my first Lizzie Improvement will be to stop complaining about Alexa. It's unhealthy to dislike a person this much; so behind all of the superficial layers of perfectly applied MAC makeup, Alexa might be a lovely person...

...On the other hand, everyone's allowed one little fault aren't they? And Jane always says my Alexa stories are hilarious. So really, I'd be depriving her of my comedic abilities by not slagging off Alexa and that wouldn't be fair to Jane at all would it? Maybe I'll just pick a different thing to improve on. Like... I will wash the dishes as soon as I have used them! Perfect! That way there will never be any clutter in the sink and I won't have to try and cram all the dirty dishes into the oven everytime someone comes round because the cupboards are all full and the oven's the only free space we have on account of never having used it for cooking once.

See? I'm already changing. I will start the transformation of the new Lizzie effective immediately. I'm just like Daniel in the Karate Kid! Changing from caterpillar to butterfly! Maybe I could take a karate class as well! Actually... I haven't really got time to do last night's washing up before work. The transformation will begin tonight!

Jane is already in the kitchen when I'm finally ready and dressed for work wearing the Whistles suit mum and dad got me for my last birthday. It's really gorgeous; this pale grey colour with little pockets and white stitching and these silver shiny buttons. I couldn't afford it even with its price tag on EBay, but that's why it's so beautiful. I feel professional and confident and expensive wearing it. My best suit for the best day of my career!

"Why are you all dressed up?" Jane asks looking up from her steaming Kit Kat mug and I feel my face break into a huge smile.

"The promotion!" I squeal, hopping from one foot to the other like some sort of munchkin on acid, "It's finally happening! Soon I'll be writing about current affairs and war zones and court cases! Not about some designer who has announced his collaboration with Lady Gaga!"

She looks confused. Not exactly the response I was going for. "Who's collaborating with Lady Gaga?"

"That's not the point." I huff, "The point is I'm getting promoted!"

Jane seems to have had a delayed reaction because her eyes light up and she suddenly slams down the Kit Kat mug with a massive grin on her face. Tea flies all over the table like a mini tsunami.

"Lizzie no!"

"Yes!"

"NO!"

"YES!"

"I can't believe it!"

"I know!" Our voices are about thirty decibels higher than the average human being. Jane jumps from her chair and we both start squealing and doing this weird jumping hug thing, kind of like what Greek people do at weddings. My cheeks hurt from smiling so hard and I swear I have a glow, an actual glow. I am literally emanating success from my very pores! This must be how Alan Sugar feels every day of his life.

I pull out a chair as Jane puts on the kettle, her high ponytail bobbing as she moves.

"So," she says, tapping the toe of her ballet flat on the floor, "Tell me exactly what happened! When did Phil tell you?"

"Tell me what?"

She spoons some sugar and a tea bag into my Disney Jungle Book mug. "That you were finally going to get to write about what you want!"

I grin and raise my eyebrows conspiratorially, "Well he hasn't said anything 'officially', but yesterday he brought me into his office and said he had something to tell me... Something I would be very, very pleased about!"

Jane sets my mug down on the table, "And it's definitely a promotion?"

I laugh incredulously, "What else could it be? I've been on at him about it for months!"

"God Lizzie, you're right! You're finally getting to do what you've always wanted and I'm putting a downer on it!" Jane lifts her mug for a toast."To your promotion!"

"Yes!" I shout, punching my fist into the air dramatically "And to the new and improved me!"

I am literally desperate to get into work. I'm sitting on the tube and I cannot keep still. A few people have given me weird looks now...I guess my constant smiling doesn't help either. They must be thinking I'm mentally unstable or a psycho. Like Linda Blair in The Exorcist. God that film is terrifying! Chilling in fact. Some may even say scarring.

Me and Jane rented it out last week; she'd never seen it before because she'd always been to scared to watch it. Even when she was like eighteen, which is a bit strange, but Janey has always hated watching people get hurt; even the fictional ones. Anyway, so I suggested we watch it, acting all nonchalant and blasé saying, "It's nothing like the horrors these days, it'll make Harry Potter look like the scariest thing you've ever seen." Except when I put it on and Linda Blair's head was spinning round and she was walking down the stairs like a spider with all that blood coming out of her mouth and stabbing herself in her 'nether regions' with the crucifix, I realised that it was a lot more scary than I had originally bargained on. We were both screaming so loud and got ourselves worked up into such a state that we ended up sleeping on the sofa together because we were too scared to sleep alone. Honestly, I don't know how I managed to forget all the scary bits. Maybe I did that thing that people do when they have really traumatic experiences. Just block the terrible, trauma inducing bits out.

Now, because of this awful experience, The Exorcist DVD is currently residing underneath the sofa cushions because we are both too scared to get it out. Even the DVD cover scares me. And because it's been under the sofa for so long we're going to have to pay the shop for not bringing it back within three days! Which in my opinion is too short a time anyway; what if my great aunt died and I was the only living relative, thus the person who had to sort out her funeral and burial? I wouldn't have time to watch my film within the set three days, would I? I'd be too busy picking out flower arrangements and buying finger food for the buffet! I'd be a devastated. grieving wreck _**and**_ conned out of £3.50 by the local Blockbuster!

Actually, come to think of it, the new and improved Lizzie wouldn't be making excuses for herself. The new and improved Lizzie would get the Exorcist DVD out from underneath the sofa and stop acting like such a twelve year old girl! The new and improved Lizzie would be able to watch horror films without even batting an eyelid! The new and improved Lizzie wouldn't google 'chants to drive away evil spirits'! That last one was only hypothetical by the way... I wouldn't actually do that... It's decided then! I will take The Exorcist back to the rental shop tonight, fantastic!

Oh and I must pick a restaurant for me and Jane to go to tonight, to celebrate my great career move! Maybe that Chinese place on the corner that is so sinfully good and greasy that it must be getting closed down by the food inspection board sometime soon. I can't even think about what goes into those noodles; I don't want to actually, apparently you eat six pubic hairs a year from take -out food, so there's one for the imagination. I saw it on a program about the dirtiest restaurants in England or something. Picture that everytime you get a Magic Wok menu through your letter box.

I get off the tube at Victoria and walk to the Victoria Plaza, the Telegraph's main headquarters on Buckingham Palace Road. I feel all jittery, and my heart is thudding with nerves and excitement. This must be how Alan Sugar feels when he closes a multi million pound deal. Or fires someone on the Apprentice. Although, to be honest, I would get that feeling more firing someone on the Apprentice, because you know that millions of people will see you do that on television. No one will see you sign a piece of paper on television. But that's just me; I don't really understand the whole "business world" anyway. Too boring. Just a bunch of suits arguing about 'the bottom line'. I mean, at least argue about something interesting, like whether David Cameron is a complete dick or not. That's a topic that's bound to spark some healthy debate.

I reach my desk having managed to successfully suppress my almost manic smile and decide to go about focusing on mundane tasks like sneak reading NME under the table. I am in the middle of debating whether David Bowie in the eighties was really as shit as NME insists, when Alexa literally sashays up to my desk, looking down at me with her signature expression of disdain and indifference that she has completely mastered.

"Phillip would like to see you in his office," she says in a bored tone. I swear Alexa is the only person on the planet that actually calls him Phillip, I bet even his wife doesn't. He's just not a Phillip, he's a Phil. Phil!

"Great," I smile through gritted teeth with a look that screams 'I am a cool collected career woman' and breeze past her towards Phil's office.

"Oh, and Lizzie," she calls smugly, as I turn back with another confident yet demure smile, "You have a hole in your tights."

OK, I am currently in a cubicle in the ladies examining the humungous whopping hole in the back of my black tights. Stupid Alexa! Stupid Pretty Polly tights! Who knew you could get a hole in a pair of seventy derniers anyway? Aren't they supposed to be hole-proof or something at that thickness? This is just perfect. Just great! I can't wear these stupid tights now, I only wore them so I didn't have to shave my legs this morning, and now I'll be walking round the office like some sort of cave woman. What if Phil's so repulsed that he doesn't give me a promotion? What if he gives it to Alexa? Alexa, who is no doubt completely hairless and owns one of those Epilator things that cost a hundred and twenty quid and actually yank out your hairs by the roots. I've never actually used one, but Jane has, and she said she had to take a paracetamol the pain was so bad! I bet Alexa thrives on the pain though, she probably doesn't even feel it, like Arnold Swarzeneger in the Terminator.

I open the cubicle door and ball up the tights in my fist. I am never buying from Pretty Polly again! In fact Topshop do some nice black tights. Ha, Pretty Polly, I am taking my business elsewhere! I throw the balled up tights into the bin with an air of defiance, just like Vivienne Leigh in Gone with the Wind and look up into the mirror. On the up side the suit does look fantastic and I am still sporting the Alan Sugar like glow, despite the whole tights fiasco. If I can just go into Phil's office and act like the poised professional I know I can be, then everything will definitely be alright. I fix my reflection with one final confident stare.

"You're fired!" I shout on impulse in my best Alan Sugar voice and then walk straight out of the room.

When I knock on the door to Phil's office I have overlooked the tights as a slight setback and am sporting a shit eating grin while mentally picking out the colour of my new Mac book. I mean I'll definitely be able to afford it after I'm writing all the big, serious stories! Orange would be cool. Or is it best to go for silver or black? A classic colour that will always look stylish, yet businesslike. I can picture myself now, typing furiously on my sleek black laptop, the epitome of high powered journalist. I'd be just like Kate Adie! Uncovering secret underground drug operations and reporting from war zones, using my great tenacity and investigative techniques to get to the bottom of even the most complicated and dangerous of situations.

"Come in!" Phil barks from his desk, cutting into my thoughts. One last shot of nerves hit me as I open the door and stride purposefully across the room to the chair in front of his desk. Poised and professional I tell myself.

"You wanted to see me?" I ask, straightening my jacket in a very bussinessy way.

"Yes." He pauses now to look at me. Phil always does this you see. To everyone. It's kind of become his trademark. He just stops talking for about thirty seconds simply to shamelessly scrutinise whoever it is he's talking to. I've always thought it was to psyche you out so I flash him a confident smile to show I am not intimidated. Not in the least... well, OK, maybe a little bit, but right now I am a poised and serious journalist, so he doesn't need to know that.

The truth is Phil is a very scary man. He seems completely normal at first, just like Norman Bates in Psycho, with the receding hairline, the v neck jumpers, the framed photograph of his two daughters that takes prime position on his desk, the 3 series silver BMW. A perfectly normal guy who should maybe invest in some form of hair re-growth treatment. But that's all a diversion, you see. A diversion from the reality; the scary, Hulk esque side of Phil. It doesn't come out all that often, but when it does; clear the area. Suddenly, the switch just flips and he turns into some kind of crazed monster, stomping around the office in a whirlwind of expletives and flying biros. Last year he got so angry and punched his desk so hard that he fractured his hand in two places and left a dent in the varnished cherry wood! I would have been hysterical; not only for my poor, fractured hand, but that desk was limited edition and nineteen hundred quid from the Conran Shop! And let's not forget the coffee incident either. All I can say there, is thank god it was only lukewarm and that Paul from Accountings shirt was just from Next...

I had a dream about Phil the other day actually. No, not that kind of dream, what do you take me for! He took me to this really posh Italian restaurant; the kind with gilded chairs and plush cream carpets and waiters who don't use note pads to take your order. We were seated in this cosy little alcove and then Phil bought the most expensive wine on the list and told me all about the time he met Shakira (something the real Phil has never done by the way.) Anyway, we were half way through the main course when he asked me about the article I was writing that I was rather late turning in. _I_ thought we were having a lovely time so just made some hardy ha joke about it all. I looked up from my seared duck and suddenly, Phil had lunged across the table at me with his steak knife, screaming something about by- lines, and pulling my teeth out. And then I woke up, thank god! It was terrifying. Then again, it's my own fault really; Jane and I had just watched The Last King of Scotland.

"Lizzie," he says, leaning forward in his chair with an impatient glare that forces me violently from my day dream. Wait-what did he just say, I missed it all. Oh god, he just offered me the promotion didn't he? And I wasn't even listening; I'll have to make up what he said to me. Oh well, he doesn't have much of a way with words I can make it much more inspirational.

"I'll do it!" I exclaim with an air of modesty, yet fierce determination. I feel like Hilary Clinton. An intelligent, empowered woman taking on the world, one...something...at a time. If only she hadn't lost to Obama.

"Good, you'll definitely enjoy it," Phil grins. Too right I'll enjoy it. No more stupid articles on Cheryl Cole's newest tattoo or the comeback of the pencil skirt! No more Alexa breathing down my neck about whether I actually even know who John Galliano is. I feel liberated, free and I can finally cancel my subscription to Glamour magazine!

"So, I'll give you two press passes so you can bring someone along. I know you mentioned about how much you loved to read Tatler so this is your perfect event!"

Wait-what? What the hell is Phil talking about? A press pass? Tatler? I said I loved reading Tatler because Alexa did! He's not bloody giving me a promotion; he's making me cover a Tatler party! My eyes are filling with tears, my glow has evaporated and my grin is now more of a grimace. Why did I get my hopes up like that, why did I have to assume that I was getting promoted! My face is hot with embarrassment and I so badly want the floor to open up and swallow me.

"Are you excited?" Phil asks, and I silently thank his complete inability to register an emotional breakdown.

"Yes!" I shout, plastering on a smile that cannot possibly look genuine and slam my hand down onto the table for extra excitement points.

OK, ow. Why the hell does my hand hurt so much?


	2. Chapter 2

Staples. **I stapled my own hand**. Yes, in my efforts to gain my so called extra excitement points, what I managed to _gain _was a couple of staples in my own goddamn hand! Life is not fair, life is not just; all the good people just end up in the A&E getting their hand stitched up by some young, shaky handed doctor called Paul (yes, I asked his name who lets a total stranger stick a needle in their hand?). Karma doesn't exist, if that were true it would be Alexa sitting here in the cubicle next to a man that talks far too loudly and apparently has developed some sort of burning purple rash in a place I don't even want to think about. Behold, the Accident and Emergency Ward; Welcome to England!

3. I will stop doing unfathomably stupid stuff like stapling parts of my anatomy.

"Lizzie!" I turn my head to see Jane standing in front of me looking wind-swept and extremely worried under the fluorescent hospital lights. How the hell did she get here? I don't even have the energy to look shocked.

"Hi," I say, offering a weak smile, "They say I might need staples for my staples."

Jane shakes her head, her bottom lip quivering "Lizzie, don't joke! Are you OK? What happened? Why didn't you call me?"

"I'm fine mum." I mock, "How did you even know I was here?"

"Charlotte texted me; I came straight out of my meeting as soon as I heard." Her words come out in a breathless tumble.

"Jane!" I protest, "You should not have done that! I'm fine! Tell her I'm fine Paul."

Paul looks up at me, startled. Then across to Jane. "She's fine."

"See, Paul knows what he's on about. He has a degree and everything."

Jane rolls her eyes and sits in the chair next to mine. "How did this even happen Lizzie?"

I shift uncomfortably, not wanting to look at her. She waits patiently as I try to think of what to say, but it all just comes spilling out. "There was no promotion Jane, just a stupid press pass to a shitty Tatler party. That was Phil's bloody surprise. Bloody brilliant. And once again I look like a complete idiot."

I feel my face heat up and my eyes sting with tears.

"Oh Lizzie, you're not an idiot!" Jane gasps, "I'm sure Phil will see how talented you are!"

"No he won't, his head's too far up Alexa's arse to see anything." I mutter bitterly. Paul stifles a laugh; well I'm glad someone sees the funny side.

"Is the party tonight?" Jane asks and I nod.

"Well we're going." She says it with such resolve and finality that I'm left speechless. Jane is the type of person who won't even pick the Ben and Jerry's just in case it's the flavour you don't want.

"There'll be free drink, free food, and dancing! You are going tonight Lizzie. You need a bit of fun after the day you've had." I half heartedly nod my consent and Jane's face breaks into a gorgeous smile. It's times like these that I know why she's a lawyer.

After Paul has finished on my hand, Jane takes the tube with me back to the flat, insisting that she is taking the rest of the day off whether I like it or not. It feels so long ago since I sat on the tube in my twitchy, crazed excitement with hopes of promotions, new laptops and freedom from Cheryl Cole. The reality of the situation is depressing, not to mention embarrassing! I cringe at how I acted today with my over-excited, over confident idiocy, prancing around like an arsehole in my Whistles suit and holy tights. The horror of it all makes me want to just curl up in my bed and down a tub of Pringles whilst watching a John Cusack movie. I'm pretty sure there's a can in the cupboard.

Phil left a message on my mobile saying that if I still felt up to going tonight, he had sent someone over with the passes. And sure enough, when we get in, a stiff brown envelope is sitting expectantly on the doormat. I pick it up and put it on the table next to the front door with the rest of the mail while Jane checks our messages.

"Lizzie, it's your mother!" Mum's voice explodes in all its middle class glory through the answering machine speaker, filling the room with its sheer volume. I'm rooted to the spot, consumed by fear; she'll definitely be expecting me to call her back! For those of you unfamiliar with the ever growing breed here in England known as the "pushy, middle class mother", this basically means I will be stuck on the phone for precisely two hours, being grilled in the manner of a CIA agent about the state of my love life.

"You do remember me don't you? I brought you into the world; gave you the precious gift of life!" OK, I'm taking bets on how many times mum will manage to insult me within the space of one phone call.

"It seems that I am always the last to know and am no longer considered important enough to warrant a telephone call," (jab number 1) "But apparently you're in the hospital? Jane said something about a mishap with a stapler? Surely not! You're not that much of a durr brain now are you?" The second jab is thrown artfully in with a trill of airy laughter.

"Oh! And I almost forgot! Good news! I've found you a new man! Very dishy! He's a banker, so lots of money there; you won't have to carry on with that silly little job of yours." Ok, mother, you are currently getting the finger for that one. "Sally from down the road says he has a Porsche AND a four bed roomed country house!" Gah! I don't fucking care!

She pauses with a dramatic sigh to impart her final piece of philosophical wisdom: " Lizzie you're in the prime of your life, if you don't settle down soon you'll be damaged goods... Anyway, must be off, I'm having my hair done by Auntie Debbie; ash blonde highlights! Cheerio!"

By the time the message has ended, I am seriously contemplating smashing the answering machine with a sledge hammer, asking myself what I did to deserve such a mother and more importantly, how I flee to Japan and change my name to Ling Su without her ever finding out, when-

"Lizzie, it's me again!" OK, deep breaths, deep breaths; think good, pure non- homicidal thoughts. "Give me a tinkle when you get in; I'm beginning to feel rather neglected." Oh, cue the bloody violins.

The answering machine beeps again, indicating yet another bloody wonderful message and I let out an angry, high pitched cry, which sounds more like a wild cat being murdered- something I wouldn't really be opposed to right now- than a human being.

"Elizabeth Cecelia Bennet, where on earth are you?" She's mad now; note the use of my full name. "Have you been abducted? I believe I have called three times now and-"

"Lizard." Dad's deep voice filters through the speaker. It's never failed to calm me down; he read the best bed time stories when I was little, put me to sleep straight away.

"Ignore your mother, I might have to slip her something to calm her down," he says in a rather conspiratorial stage whisper and I giggle, my anger dissipating with his soothing voice. "What she meant to say is we all hope you and your hand are doing just fine and we'll-"

"Joe, give me the phone back now!"

The line goes dead.

"You have no more messages." The snooty automated woman's voice tells me and never have I been more happy to hear her. Next to mum she sounds like Daniel Craig (the celebrity voted to have the number one sexiest voice by the people of England if you were wondering). And speaking of mum with a voice like hers she should not be in contact with humans on a daily basis, the sheer pitch is suited much more for hyenas. How the hell has dad managed to put up with her all these years; I'm pretty sure I would have pulled a Mr Rochester and just locked her in the attic. But, after all my twenty five years on this planet and a psychology A-Level, I am still no closer to figuring out the enigma that is Francine Bennet. She's deranged! I mean seriously, I'm not a dog; she can't just put me next to a member of the opposite sex and expect us to dry hump over the buffet table. Even if he does have a Porsche and a four bedroom country house. And trust me I can't meet another one of her so called eligible bachelors. Last time at one of mum's garden parties (or cleverly masked ruses to set up her single daughter), said bachelor took me for a spin in his open top Mercedes and proceeded to tell me every single detail about his ex girlfriend. And his plaid fetish. See, you're beginning to understand why I refuse to be set up aren't you? It's not like I go willingly either; I don't actually go out on dates with these guys. It's more like we're in the same place at the same time at some sort of public event all in thanks to mum's intricate military style organisation. If she was a secret navy seal I would not be shocked.

4. I will try my hardest not to indulge evil thoughts about my mother.

OK, I am making a promise that I will no longer be coerced into her transparent blind dates ever again. Especially with my stitches in my hand and all that, she'll play that off in her favour. I'll be made out to be some accident prone damsel in distress that constantly needs 'saving' by the egocentric banker of the week with a penis complex. He'll constantly run around holding doors for me and calling me patronising nicknames like "sweetie pie" and "dumpling" and mum will absolutely love it! How awful!

Come to think of it, how the hell did mum even know about my hand? I didn't tell her, Phil didn't tell her, Paul the doctor sure as hell didn't tell her... "Jane said something about a mishap with a stapler," I hear mum's voice echo in my ears. God I feel like I'm House having an epiphany. Cue dramatic electro style instrumental... I didn't even question how mum knew about my hand, I didn't really listen to what she was saying. But now it's so clear; Jane! She told mum; she is the reason I will have to endure a two hour conversation talking to the woman that makes Jason Bourne look like a puppy; the reason I will be bombarded with highlighted excerpts from Men are from Mars, Women are from Venus; the reason I will have my horoscope recited to me from three different monthly glossies. (Red magazine be damned!) Jane Bennet I will kill you!

"Jane!" I shout as I storm into the kitchen flinging the door open for dramatic effect. But I'm stopped in my tracks. At the kitchen table Jane is sat down with a teeny tiny bird. I wish I was kidding. Yes my sister is currently tending to an injured baby bird. How the hell can you shout at this girl?

"Yes?" she looks up with a smile. God her eyes are so big and kind; she's bloody Bambi; you can't kill Bambi!

"Just wondering what you were doing?" I mumble; I mean what else can I say, there is a bird on our table?

"Well when we got in I found this little creature outside on the patio with a broken wing," she strokes its head with her forefinger. "I think it'll have to stay with us for a while, I've got a cardboard box it can sleep in."

"OK," I say, now feeling a total bitch, I mean an injured bird is lying on my table! "We should name it!"

Jane chuckles, "What do you have in mind?"

I pause contemplatively. "Alan Sugar."

Jane raises her eyebrow and laughs, "I'm not even going to ask."


	3. Chapter 3

Jane raises her eyebrow and laughs, "I'm not even going to ask."

By eight o'clock I have begrudgingly squeezed myself into one of Jane's slinky black dresses. After seeing Alan Sugar on the table I think that my judgement was seriously impaired. I mean, you can't just see a baby bird so close to death on your own kitchen table without feeling something! So instead of lying self pityingly in bed shouting obscenities during Britain's Got Talent like a blithering idiot I am doing the exact opposite; going to this stupid party. Now, don't get all excited there, I know exactly what you're thinking; "What's so bad about a party? Free alcohol, free food, the chance to get all dolled up." Well, once you've been to a few of these things you kind of get... well frankly, you just want to punch everyone there. Just clean, no fuss right hooks. Allow me to elaborate before you come to the premature conclusion that I am a mentally unstable psycho girl just like Angelina Jolie in Girl Interrupted. Working in the fashion section of the Telegraph I have been to my fair share of parties. The first one you go to, I admit, is pretty fun; Crammed into a room with the likes of Emma Thompson, Sienna Miller and Rupert Grint; getting all excited when you see 'that really hot guy from that really awful period drama'. But, as much as I hate to say it, the novelty wears off. A party is a party, and I'd much rather be down the pub. Jane really managed to stretch out the whole getting ready process. We were at it for about two and a half hours. First she had me wash my hair; she had bought some new shampoo and it smelt so nice, but I got a bit in my eye which was rather traumatic. I got all panicky and blast cold water into my eye, forgetting completely that my whole body would also get hit by a freezing jet of water; not fun let me tell you. Then we did the whole moisturising bit. I plonked myself on my bed watching Matilda on channel 5 and got completely distracted by the primary task at hand. Mainly because as soon as I've started I find myself lulled into this weird sort of moisturising trance. But also because I am a sucker for Matilda. Growing up she was my idol. Who wouldn't want to be that good at reading and making pancakes? Oh, and the whole telekinesis thing isn't half bad either. For a few months when I was about six I refused to answer to anything else but Matilda, wore the red ribbons in my hair and wheeled around a little cart of books I had gotten from the library, the whole works. For a period I would even try and make things move just by giving them what I deemed _the Matilda look_. Sadly, that dream came crashing down when I started trying to convince the children at school to "get" the headmaster. But that was nothing compared to my Batman phase. About half way through the film when Brucie eats the whole of the humungous chocolate cake, Jane came in and told me off for not getting ready. I swear I was welling up a bit at it all. That scene really does show the triumph of the human spirit. I mean Miss Trunchbull never thought Brucie would do it! And when he finally does and the kids go nuts cheering, his face is so full of pride. It makes me emotional, I just can't explain. Anyway, Jane didn't feel the same way and turned it off, telling me I had to dry my hair, except I couldn't very well on account of my right hand being chock full of stitches. So Jane did it for me and we talked about her day at work and her boss and the people she works with. Her work friends are Tom who is gay and in a bad relationship with a commitment-phobe called Daniel, and Scarlett who runs the marathon every year and always wears the nicest shoes. I love when Jane tells me all this, the part of her life I know nothing about. I love the little thoughtful details she will always add when describing someone.

Once my hair was all dry it was time for makeup, which Jane had to do again; she poked me in the eye three times with the stupid mascara wand. But she did a good job and I didn't look like a drag queen, so not a total loss. She kept encouraging me to "take chances" with my makeup because she'd read about it in Elle. But let me tell you, when she held up that yellow eyeliner I was ready to pounce on all five feet eight inches of her. I didn't take a Tai Kwando for beginners class for nothing. After that she wisely suggested more demure colour schemes. Then, I put on ACDC as we picked out what to wear and I had a bit of a dance to "You shook me all night long" in my bra and knickers; a mistake I won't make again, damn pervert in the car outside! And that takes me up to this very moment. I have just poured myself into a tight black dress and am standing at the door in evil toe pinching heels that could only have been designed by a woman hating man-or Mel Gibson-, waiting for Jane to put Alan Sugar to bed. Yes I realise now my oversight in naming the bird after a major business tycoon. "Ready?" Jane asks, closing the door to the kitchen quietly so as not to wake Alan from his peaceful slumber. She looks absolutely gorgeous. Like knockout put-a-guy-in-a-coma gorgeous. When we were young a modelling scout stopped her in a supermarket and gave her a card for Storm, like the biggest modelling agency in the world. Kate Moss is signed to it for god's sake! Anyway, little blonde, doe eyed, ten year old Jane politely turned them down as she had already decided that she wanted to be Erin Brokovich, not Cindy Crawford. So that pretty much tells you just how beautiful she is. Jane must be the person in the world most celebrated for her acting talents, who is not actually an actress. A few months ago, one guy actually congratulated her for her Best Actress Oscar win and, I quote, "sizzling on screen chemistry with Leonardo Dicaprio". Bless her; she played along just so the man didn't get embarrassed.

"Yeah about that," I smirk, "My hand's really starting to hurt and I don't think I'll be able to come, medically speaking and-"

"Shut up Lizzie!" Jane laughs and shoves me out the door.

Forty minutes later and we're showing our press passes to the gigantor doorman who looks like he could extra in The Sopranos- or something as equally violent and testosterone filled. The closer we get to actually being admitted inside, the more my excitement at the prospect of an open bar grows. Jane looks pretty happy about it too. Seriously, I haven't been out to a proper party in so long I feel giddy, like a sixteen year old trying to sneak into a club in her mum's heels. Not that I ever did that actually; nor Jane. It seems that particular gene has skipped the two eldest and moved onto the next two Bennet daughters who have much more of a penchant for getting pissed in public. At sixteen I was in my "deep, meaningful and misunderstood phase" as I would then refer to it- now it's more commonly known as my "pretentious bastard phase"- where I would constantly quote from The Catcher in the Rye, Friedrich Nietzsche and ponder the "meaning of life" whilst wearing copious-and rather questionable- amounts of black eyeliner.

My younger sisters Lydia and Kitty seem to have by-passed this whole self consciously philosophical chapter of their lives and instead have said "to hell with individuality" subsequently becoming Miley Cyrus clones, prancing around in tiny denim shorts, blasting out crappy pop music and acting less intelligent than they actually are in a misguided attempt to win the favour of adolescent boys. I mean I do love them; I have no choice, we share the same genetic code. But me and dad still can't help but get infuriated by how they act sometimes. Mum's the exact opposite; bloody encouraging every little thing; every boyfriend, every pair of new high heels, every sparkly lip-gloss. Mary, my youngest sister, on the other hands, is the polar opposite to Liddy and Kitty. All she cares about is her academic credentials and getting to Oxford University. She would not approve of where I am tonight, I can tell you that, even if it is for work.

"Come on!" Jane is tugging on my hand with an excited grin, "Let's get good and proper drunk!" I laugh thinking of Mary. Yes, another truly gruelling day at the office.


	4. Author's Note

For those of you reading this story, I apologise for not having updated it in such a long time. Up until June I was doing exams, but after that I just got a severe case of writer's block. I hope to update a lot more regularly now and promise that the infamous Mr Darcy will be appearing very shortly. Thank you so much for sticking with my story so far, it is absolutely awesome to be told that I make people laugh with my writing. So yeah, thanks and I'd love for you to keep reading !


	5. Chapter 5

"You were the front row crier! I can't believe it!"

"I'm so embarrassed! Once I start it's actually impossible to stop me,"

"Well, you're a very pretty crier; I kept looking at you and forgot my lines!"

So went the conversation between a blushing Jane and our newest acquaintance Charlie Bingley. It turns out that the play Jane went to see last week in which she "hysterically sobbed at the complete tragedy of it all" starred none other than the handsome man standing behind us in the queue for the loo. In the middle of our discussion about getting chocolate body wraps, he tapped Jane on the shoulder and asked if she had been at one of his auditions last week. She had blushed, burst out laughing and quickly assured him she wasn't an actress.

Five minutes later and they had established that Jane was in fact occupying seat 14 A during the matinee performance of 'Saved' at the Lyric Theatre in Hammersmith.

"Can I just say I thought your performance was brilliant," Jane blurts out, as we move up the queue.

"Well it was the script really, not me, Edward Bond is such a talented playwright, his work is-it's fantastic." Charlie rambles, embarrassed. "Anyway, I'm an actor, I'm self absorbed enough already. What do you two do job wise?"

Note that while this is addressed to the both of us, Charlie focuses completely on Jane while he speaks. I suppress a squeal of delight, it's like Romeo and Juliet-without the impending death by dagger and poison obviously- and I am right in the middle of it all, watching it firsthand; the sidelong glances, the embarrassed smiles, the shy compliments. If only every man could be so romantic, if only every man could love you so much he would do anything for you, not take you to KFC and make you pay for it all because he gets his wages on a Wednesday and-

"Excuse me," a woman in the queue says, "There's a toilet free."

"Sorry," I mumble and rush towards the cubicle.

"Favourite film?" Charlie asks, leaning forward in his seat. While I was in the loo, Charlie had invited me and Jane to sit with him, so the three of us are currently in a corner booth drinking champagne- free of course- and waiting for Charlie's best friend to arrive. Apparently, he's some sort of zillionaire hotelier and "a bloody great laugh!"

"Um, it'd have to be Roman Holiday," Jane says after a pause. Whatever, it's so Pretty Woman.

"Ah, an Audrey fan." He grins, "Favourite book?"

"Persuasion," she smiles, "Have you read it?"

"No, but now I'm wishing I had," Charlie laughs.

Jane blushes and quickly turns the subject away from herself. "Lizzie's got a great taste in films and books."

Charlie turns towards me. "Trust me I haven't," I laugh, "It's definitely a mixed bag with me, I think I was one of the only people on the planet to genuinely love Bubble Boy,"

"Bubble Boy? What's Bubble-"

"Ignore her Charlie," Jane laughs.

"No, explain! I'm very intrigued!"

"Well if you insist," I laugh, "it's about this boy who lives in this kind of bubble thing because his mum's a bit of a-"

And then Charlie cuts me off, jumping from his seat and waving across the room. "Darce, over here!" he shouts grinning and rather jovially holding up a glass of champagne. I follow Charlie's gaze until it falls onto the man in question (who I presume is the squillionaire hotelier) and my jaw drops.

Charlie's best mate is literally gorgeous. Gorgeous. I mean I know I've been known to exaggerate in the past, but I'm not even kidding, this "Darce" guy looks like some kind of Burberry model slash sex god. OK I can't believe I just said that, it's probably best to stop downing the free champagne now. But it's not like I'm all about physical attractiveness anyway, I mean looking back at some of my previous boyfriends, they weren't exactly level 10 hotness or anything. I'm definitely deeper than that! It's about their minds, their intelligence, their wit, their-

God, his jaw's so strong. Sexy, like he'd give you a bit of a telling off. Mmmmm…

That was the champagne talking OK.

"Lizzie," Charlie says, snapping me out of my daydream, "This is Will Darcy."

Shit. I look up and there he is. Will Darcy. Sitting across from me and studying me like I'm some sort of rare breed.

"Hi, nice to meet you." I say.

"Lizzie here's a journalist at the Telegraph." Charlie adds enthusiastically "She writes for the fashion and celebrity section."

Darcy scoffs. "We're using the term journalist loosely here I see Charles."

God, his voice is so deep and smooth, just like Daniel Craig. Did I mention he was voted as having the sexiest-

Then I realise what he's just said.

I feel myself stiffen in my seat. Did he actually just say that? I mean, I know I'm the first person to slag off my job and everything but I feel strangely defensive. _I'm _allowed to say those things because it's _my _job. Where does this guy get off deciding who's a journalist and who's not? I mean I'm a talented writer, I should not have to justify myself to some arsehole in a fifteen hundred quid suit! There's an awkward silence. Charlie hums to himself and lets out a nervous laugh.

"And what do you do, Mr Darcy?" I ask through gritted teeth. Arsy Darcy is more like it.

"I own a chain of hotels," he says abruptly.

"Darcy Hotels," Charlie chimes in with a wink. I can't even try to hide my surprise. _The_ Darcy Hotels? How did I not put two and two together? It's only like the most famous hotel chain in the whole goddamn world! I mean there's like a thousand of them in England alone! Will bloody Arsehole Darcy owns Darcy Hotels. How is that fair?

Then suddenly I'm hit by a second realisation. Will Darcy! I know his name already, he features in my articles _all_ the time. Standing next to hot model of the week with legs up to her chin. Nearly everyday I have to write his name into the photo captions. "Insert name here with new beau Will Darcy". As if! He has the nerve to mock my job when he dates girls that have the IQ of a seven year old on a weekly basis? I feel the anger rising up inside me and all I want to do is punch that smug expression off his stupid face! Rise above it Lizzie, rise above it, I tell myself, clenching my fists under the table.

"I love this song," I say after a pause, turning fully towards Charlie and Jane. Keeping my back to _him_. And yes I know I'm being rude and maybe even a bit immature but…

4. I will try my absolute hardest to not let people get a rise out of me. Even if the person in question is a total idiot/ imbecile/ arse.

"And I don't bloody know this song!" Charlie laughs. "Its got guitars I know that. A few drums. Am I hearing some sort of keyboard?"

"It's Pulp." Darcy says absent-mindedly. Then his brow furrows, as if he wishes he never said anything at all.

"You like Pulp?" I ask incredulously. I mean look at him, he is so the classic FM type.

"Are you kidding! You should see his record collection. The whole house is full of them, shelves and shelves. Right Darce?" Charlie says enthusiastically.

Darcy shoots him daggers. "I have quite a few."

I just nod, I mean it's blatantly obvious that he wants to talk to me no more than I want to jab nails in my eyes.

"And on that note…" Charlie stands and gives a mock bow, "Jane would you do me the honour of giving me this dance?"

Darcy rolls his eyes and Jane laughs, blushes. "Of course," And then they're gone. And I'm stuck. Stuck at this stupid table.

"Do you like to dance?" I ask in a last ditch attempt at conversation.

"No, not really."

Then silence. I look over at Jane and Charlie, laughing and dancing; actually looking like they're having a good time. What a novelty. I look back over at Darcy. He's on his phone now, jabbing furiously at the keys. _On the phone with company! What rudeness!_ I hear my mother say.

Oh god, I can't believe it… this man has driven me to agree with my mother!

Two songs later and he still hasn't said a word. It's bloody embarrassing, I mean if you didn't know us you'd think we were two lovers embroiled in a huge angry row. Ha! In his dreams. I wouldn't go out with Will Darcy if he gave me every Pemberley hotel in the world. I mean would it kill him to crack a smile once in while. Granted I may not be the most attractive woman in the world, but I'm not that bloody ugly that he can't even make eye contact with me. The anger hits me again, another rolling wave of it, and I take a self righteous swig of champagne. The novelty of it being free has worn off a bit and to be honest I kind of want to cry.

Trust me I know what you're thinking. What a pathetic loser. A girl that thought of herself as a bit of feminist in uni- still thinks of herself as a bit of a feminist actually; who wore thick rimmed glasses and cut her own hair just to show the world that she didn't care about her appearance, didn't care if she was stereotypically attractive and feminine- is now crying because some insignificant man made her feel inferior. Well let me just remind you that this has been a very bad day for me. I mean, for a start, I got sent to this party, then, I stapled my hand, I had stitches! Stitches! And at this very moment I'm sweaty, I'm tired and the zip on this dress is persistently digging into my armpit.

That's it. I'm not sitting here anymore. I'm getting up and I'm going to talk to someone who will actually respond to my questions. Who I can have basic human interaction with. But as I'm gathering up my bag and my shawly thing, a woman walks up to our table. She's tall and stick thin with impossibly long legs and impossibly shiny hair. Probably Darcy's squeeze of the week.

"William Darcy," she says breathily and I try not to laugh. You can tell she's been practicing that line in front of the mirror all day. He finally looks up from his phone and for a second I see a look of sheer panic cross his face. God it's fun to watch him squirm.

"Caroline... How have you been?"

She opens her mouth to give another breathy reply when she registers my presence. In an instant her expression turns from one of coy flirtation, to undisguised anger. Poor girl, he probably dumped her and she's come here trying to win him back. _I don't want him _I want to reasure her _he's all yours. In fact I hate this cocky bast-_

"I don't believe we've met." Caroline turns towards me with a saccharine smile.

"No, we haven't. Hi, I'm Lizzie Bennett,"

"Enchante," she replies and I choke holding back my laughter.

"Sorry, it's the champagne, went down the wrong way," I say. And I could swear Darcy is laughing too.


	6. Chapter 6

Thirty minutes later and I am in hell. No really; actual hell. You know, flames-a-burning, people dropped into burning pits of fire, screams resounding for all eternity. That hell. After Caroline Bingley came over and basically started mounting Darcy's leg I really didn't think the night could get any worse. I mean, Darcy had insulted me and my choice of career, making his dislike for me perfectly apparent. Caroline Bingley pretty much hated me too, if the looks she was throwing me were anything to go by. Plus Jane and Charlie were still dancing like lovesick teenagers at a school disco leaving me very much alone at my very Tory table. And just when I thought things were incapable of getting worse, who slides into our booth? Who? Only the devil incarnate. The love child of Mitt Romney and Paris Hilton. Bloody Alexa.

"Caroline, darling, I haven't seen you in forever!" she gasps after about two minutes of air kissing and fake laughs. Her face contorts in momentary shock when she sees that I, scum of the earth, am actually sharing a table with the likes of London society's crème de la creme. I must admit, Alexa's I've –just- been- hit- by- a- bus wounded expression is a small personal victory.

"I know it's been too long," Caroline replies with a saccharine smile, and then they launch into an enthusiastic discussion about the "Bells, Millie and Frederick sitch". From what I can gather, basically, Millie and Frederick are supposed to be a totally in love couple; together for two and a half years, about to buy a dog together blah blah blah. But, on holiday in Italy, Frederick got temporary brain damage and misunderstood what the definition of exclutivity actually was, as did her best friend Bells. Cue saucy Italian sex romp and some particularly saucy I Phone photos that Millie "stumbled upon" after oh so innocently hacking into her boyfriend's phone. And then boy did it kick off at Edward's party.

The whole conversation is amazing; it's like watching a high budget Jeremy Kyle or something. The biggest drama I have in my life is what to order for dinner. They're bloody going on holiday to Europe mid week and having crazy European sex! I couldn't even afford to have crazy sex in the Travel Lodge down the road on my salary.

The conversation quickly wraps up after they've finished giving their opinions on whether Millie and Frederick will break up- a resounding no from both sides ("Mill's is so desperate, Frederick can get away with anything"). After one final round of air kissing, Alexa looks patronisingly at me and says she "hopes my poor hand gets better very quickly". Just as she turns to walk away, almost as an afterthought she stops and swivells on her five inch heels.

"Oh and Will," she says breathily, "I still have your shirt. From last weekend. You'll have to…pick it up…sometime."

And then with a last flash of a victorious smile she is gone. Caroline's eyes are so wide she actually looks like an escaped mental patient. Darcy looks as if he's swallowed a sock.

"You… and Alexa?" Caroline asks, trying her best to appear cool and unaffected but failing dismally. I feel as if I am watching a terrorist interrogation. And to be honest I have to agree with Caroline; Alexa! Alexa Albright. Darcy has to be a lot more conceited than I thought. I mean, let's call a spade a spade; Alexa is horrible.

"It was one time." Darcy says shortly, glancing at me.

"I'm surprised, I thought you didn't go for blondes," Caroline says with an attempt at an airy laugh, but there's still a hint of accusation in there.

"I'm surprised, I thought a pompous know it all wouldn't deign to shag a journalist…And I'm using the term loosely." I say, and as I look at Darcy I know I finally have one up on him because he's wearing the sock expression again. So with a victorious smile I pick up my bag and breeze out of the booth without even a glance in his direction. And I don't trip over either.


End file.
